Gravity
by kaz456
Summary: Rachel’s smarter than people give her credit for. Rachel and gravity serve the same purpose.


**Summary:** Rachel's smarter than people give her credit for. Rachel and gravity serve the same purpose.

**AN: **This is some sort of compensation for the computer problems that disenabled me to update _The End_. Prompted by internal inquiry about the things that we base our identities on. Reviews help lots.

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**Gravity**

They say that we're falling every moment. Humans, I mean. Gravity's the only thing that holds us down, and they say that it's even a weak force at best.

I feel that way, once in awhile. Like I'm falling and only barely being held down. Like if I lost my grip, then I would go flying off into nothing.

And what would happen if I disappeared into nothingness? I'm a teenager, but I'm not angsty. I know the cards, I know the way the story goes. I know more than most people give me credit for, even my teammates. Yeah, I'm rash, and yeah, I like to be a little bit unpredictable (though you could argue that even my unpredictable behavior is predictable), but that doesn't mean I'm stupid.

"It's important to know who you are." The counselor leans forward in her chair, hands clasped together and folded across her desk. Her face is serious, and her business-like tone is a huge contrast to my slouched, arms-crossed-over-my-chest, scowling, posture.

See? Contrast. I can recognize and analyze good literary juxtapositions given the right situation.

"It _is_ important to know who you are," I tell her. It's good advice. I think that counselors are sold short, too, just like me. People scoff at what they say without realizing that hey, it just might be good for something.

"I'm glad you realize this." The counselor is now set at ease; I have inaccurately identified myself as an accommodating student. Her guard is now down. She thinks she has nothing to worry about. Accordingly, a smile slides onto her face and she leans back in her chair.

"What we're here to talk about, Rachel—" She glances quickly back down at my file, checking to make sure she got my name right. "—is college."

She waits for my reaction. I nod, and smile. Typical.

She continues. "College is a scary thing, I know. And I'm sure that it feels like it's far away."

"It does feel that way," I concede, nodding wholesomely.

Sometimes I think that I'd be a great actress. That's not to say that I'm never myself—"To thine own self be true" is one of my favorite Shakespeare quotes, and on that tangent, I love Hamlet but I like to pretend that he never went crazy—it's just, I'm so good at being what I need to be, who I need to be.

"The thing is," She starts, and leans forward again, prepared to launch into a memorized speech. "College is much closer than you think. Yes, I realize that you are only a junior. But junior year is extremely important. Junior year means SAT's, SAT II's, ACT's, AP's. It means time to raise your GPA and your grades, especially in the core classes. You get your first class ranking in junior year. Junior year means time to start figuring out what you'd like in a college environment. That's why it's important to know you are. Do you understand?"

I nod. "Of course. I agree." And smile. I'm so good at this.

She smiles, a little relieved. "Well, good! Tell me, have you given any thought into what sort of career you'd like to pursue?"

Maybe what my friends would expect me to say is no, I haven't. They expect me to be thinking something along the lines of "I've been too busy fighting an inter-galactic war to consider college options."

They'd be quite surprised if they realized how wrong they are.

"Yes, I have," I tell her. I sit up a little in my seat, cross my legs. "I'm not completely sure, but I've been looking into a career in the field of foreign interactions or foreign policy, specifically concerning national defense or security."

Ms. Counselor raises her eyebrows. "Oh?" She smiles. "Not a doctor or lawyer kind of girl, are you, Rochelle?"

I don't bother correcting her, just nod and smile. After all, I don't know her name either. Ms. Counselor's job isn't to know me—her job is to make me feel like I have a confidante who happens to also be a figure of authority. He job is to get me into college, or aid me in the process.

Ms. Counselor doesn't know it, but I don't think that I'll go to college. I regret that fact. I like to fight—I like to fight a lot. But past that, I like to learn as well. I wish I could do both, fight and learn, but life doesn't work out that easily.

And furthermore, how would that help the Animorphs?

I am a part of something that is not merely limited to my own fantasies and perceptions of myself. I know who I am, but I also know who I am to my friends. I am gravity; though I occasionally feel like falling myself, I am the somewhat weak force that manages to hold us together.

I am not being conceited when I say that the Animorphs would not function without me. Without my constant gung-ho attitude, without my sometimes-false bravado pushing them on, we would not function nearly as efficiently as we do now.

It hurts to say it, but without me there to ease their consciences, to be that person who they don't want to turn into, then we would not have the surprisingly high success rate that we currently have.

Ms. Counselor glances at the blue-and-white clock on the wall (school colors) and nods to herself. Our meeting is drawing to a close, and we can both feel the shift in our attitudes.

"Well, Rochelle, you sound like a very put-together young woman. You know who you are, you know what you want, and I bet that you could even predict where you'll be in five years." She smiles again—it's not quite warm, but far from cold. Lukewarm, I would say, reflecting partial interest, but not enough to truly interest her. "Where do you think you'll be in five years?"

In five years, I know where I will be. I will be in the same place I am now, a place of constancy and change. I will still be fighting the Yeerks. Once I graduate, I will not go to college, and if I do, it will be a small college close to home. My first priority is to fight this war—in five years, I will be staying close to that priority.

And if I'm lucky, I won't be in a hole six feet under the ground. I don't want to die, and I hate dirt, anyway.

What I tell the counselor is, "I'm not sure. Wherever life takes me."

She hardly hears my answer. She is already pulling out the next file, preparing for the next student. She knows what she is.

The Animorphs know who I am, and that trumps any knowledge I have of myself.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Roch-, ahem, Rachel." Ms. Counselor effectively begins the process of shooing me out of her office, and ironically begins it with correctly remembering my name. "My only advice to you would be to think more about what colleges you'd like to go to, and continue to know who you are."

"Thank you," I tell her, sincere as insincerity can be. I stand up and cast a glance around the room. Certificates and diplomas hang on the wall behind Ms. Counselor, all framed and proudly denoting her education. They are slips of paper upon which the entire career of my counselor is built upon. They tell her who and what she is.

As my hand parts from the doorknob and a new student steps into the room, I smile. It is wry, it is harsh, but it is, nonetheless, a smile.

How true can identity be if it you so easily can shift it, fake it, and manipulate it? Yes, Ms. Counselor, it's important to know who you are. But it's more important to know who you need to be.


End file.
